Blades and Bowstrings
by John Michaud
Summary: Blight-fic. M!Cousland x Leliana. An Archdemon rises, threatening the land of Ferelden. Only two Grey Wardens remain, and the odds against them seem insurmountable. Rated T for violence, occasional swearing and certain situations not suitable for kids .


**1.**

**Dane's Refuge.**

"All right! We surrender, you win!"

The Warden's lips twisted into a snarl, his cloud-grey eyes alight with a keen thirst for blood. His dagger danced along the defeated man's throat, tracing the outline of his collarbone. All it would take to let flow the vein would be the slightest bit of pressure. So sharp was the blade, in fact, that the fine point had already bled the skin from the faintest touch of it.

They had been in Lothering not two hours, and had already encountered not one, but two groups of suicidal ingrates. The first, a cadre of bandits preying upon hapless southern refugees, were met with only steel and anger. The Warden's last few weeks had proven most unpleasant, and he found himself unable to suffer fools as he was once able. Loghain's soldiers were less-competent than he imagined, his true blade still rested in its sheath, he had needed only his dagger and a well-placed barrage of strikes to bring a swift end to the fight.

The Chantry Sister hovered in the periphery of his vision, speaking muffled words that did not translate until the blood had ceased pumping so close to his ears. It took Alistair's gauntleted hand resting upon his shoulder to make him realize that he had spent close to a minute frozen in place. Slowly waking from his blood-hazed state, the Warden turned to better observe the woman as she spoke.

"They have surrendered, they were no match for you. Let them be!"

His mouth set into a grimace, but soon his dagger-arm began to relent. Through gritted teeth he finally spoke, words seething and raw with emotion.

"They aimed to butcher us, Sister. They deserve no mercy."

"If you kill them here, then you prove yourself as great a monster as they, no?"

The Warden frowned again, this one deeper than the last. _Damn zealots and their mercy, damn women and their logic._

After a moment of pause, he slowly returned the blade to its home at his belt, motioning for Loghain's captain to take his men and flee. His eyes burned, driving home an easily-discernible message. Pray you never see me again.

And pray the captain would, as soon as he returned home to Gwaren. Every day of his life, he'd thank the Maker for that copper-haired Sister.

Sensing an abatement in the man's anger, the Sister continued on, this time her tone was far more delicate. "I apologize for interefering, but I couldn't sit by and _not_ help." She strode dangerously close, taking care to step over the slight pool of blood as she did so.

To her surprise, the man's face softened a bit. Her knack for reading people told her much: he was disarmed by her bravery, but his gaze scrutinized the most isignificant of her movements. This person-Grey Warden, as they had claimed-did not trust easily. There was a story behind that, she was certain, but now was not remotely close to the proper time to dwell on that.

"It's all right, I was happy to save your life." the man said at length, his two companions (and a Mabari hound, of all things) coming to rest at his side; the taller man with a twinkle in his eye chose to sit down at a nearby table. The raven-haired woman, however, regarded her coldly.

"Save my life?" She cocked a brow, a wry smile threatening to form as she did so. "I assure you, Ser, I can handle myself."

"So I see." His tone was so matter-of-fact. "Where does a Sister learn to fight like that?"

This time a smile did crack her full lips, and for a moment levity flashed across the Warden's countenance.

"I wasn't born in the Chantry, you know. Many of us had... other, more colorful lives before joining."

The man's armored companion grinned. "I know what you mean, _believe_ me."

"You speak as if your upbringing was anything but ordinary," the dark-haired woman retorted, her hauntingly cat-like eyes squinting in the man's direction.

"As opposed to what? Hiding in a swamp? Counting the number of toadstools on some driftwood?"

"Enough, both of you." The man, quite obviously their leader, spoke. His tone was firm, yet not stoic or reproachful like many similar men. The Sister found herself greatly intrigued by him, yearning to peel the layers of his psyche, though such a thing would not come without much time spent in each other's company. There was a familiarity to him, though, that struck her as remarkable; and he possessed a maturity she wouldn't have expected in one who looked as youthful as he did. Silence hung heavy in the air for a short while, the Warden waiting for her to either speak up or leave, he was clearly not in the best of moods. Her next words were hesitant, her eyes fluttered about to search for unwanted eavesdroppers.

"You are both Grey Wardens, yes? You fight darkspawn, battle Blights?"

"You could say that, yes."

"Excellent!" She giggled, a melodic, rich sound that could soften the hearts of golems. "I know that after Ostagar you will need all the help you can get, hmm? Allow me to come along."

This time the man had the gall to smirk, eyeing her warily as if she was some common wastrel. "I'm sorry, Sister..." he started, voice husky with weariness. "But you're mistaken, I don't need you."

"I can fight," she persisted. "I can do more than fight. I have to come with you." She was uncertain whether she should mention her vision, but the Sister imagined that such a talk would do little to aid her cause. Better he judge her on what he could see; that being her skill in a fight and her willingness to aid him. Grey Wardens would be hard-pressed to find allies after Ostagar, that was painfully obvious. She suspected he knew that, and was willing to have her along, but first he needed to test the strength of her resolve.

She'd heard stories of the Wardens, after all, selfless warriors without equal; men, women, mage, elf and dwarf who forsake every facet of their lives in dedication to protecting humanity from the darkspawn. Their resolve, their courage was uncertain-the courage of a fresh-faced Chantry Sister, no matter her skill-was not above scrutiny.

"You feel sorry for the people? Help them here."

"And then what? The horde will come; and this darkness, this... chaos... will spread. The Maker doesn't want this!"

Her sighs were heavier than normal, and she soon found the exhaustion of the fight beginning to creep up on her. "What you do, what you are meant to do... that is the Maker's work. Believe it or not, I certainly do. Please, I want to help."

The man was silent for what felt like an eternity, going so far as to turn and confer with his fellow Warden, whose cognac eyes kept shifting to her and back. Within moments, however, a decision was reached. Her heart sank, expecting to be rebuked. Why shouldn't he, after all? He did not know her, and his path was most dangerous. So when the next words out of his mouth were spoken, relief flooded every inch of her.

"Very well, Sister. I will not turn down help when it is offered, so long as you know that you are not bound to me. I cannot be responsible for what might happen to you."

She smiled, then, all teeth and lips. "Thank you, I will not let you down, Ser..."

"Isaac. Isaac Cousland."

"My name is Leliana, and you will not regret this."

* * *

_**A.N. - **Yep, another Blight-fic. I missed writing and wished to try starting anew, and what better way to start than by playing in Bioware's amazing sandbox? Just for legal purposes, I obviously take no credit for anything present in this story, as that all belongs to Bioware and, by extension, EA. Read and review if you want, I always enjoy feedback =)._


End file.
